


Damocles

by MagnetoTheMagnificent



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Bipolar Disorder, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley has OCD, Crowley is bipolar, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manic Episode, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnetoTheMagnificent/pseuds/MagnetoTheMagnificent
Summary: Not long after the Apocalypse, Crowley still can't shake the feeling of desperation and uncertainty. It all becomes too much.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Damocles

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for slightly graphic descriptions of a manic episode

The kitchen was spotless, he should know, he cleaned it. He had mopped the floor, organized the cutlery, and scrubbed every counter until his knuckles became raw and peeling. There was nothing left to clean, and he wandered around aimlessly in circles, unable to find a purpose, something to do. The living room- he had only tidied it a few days ago. No doubt dust was gathering already on the couch, the table, the vase….  
He tried to find the feather duster. Where had he put it? He couldn’t find it, it wasn’t in the cabinet, he lost it, he must have. He opened and closed the cabinet door. It wasn’t there. Over and over he opened and closed the cabinet door, straining the hinges, splintering the wood. He couldn’t stop, he wasn’t allowed to stop, he had to find the duster, he had to-

He was in the living room. He didn’t know how he got there. The room was white, white enough that he could see every flaw. There was a discolouration on the white suede couch. The neon lamp was askew. He fixed the lamp, burning his fingertips on the hot bulb.   
There was still a spot on the couch. He tried to rub it away. It wouldn’t go away. Suede got discoloured with age, it wouldn’t be fixed with just his hand. He tried anyway. 

He rubbed the suede more, but the stain was still there. He scratched and tore at the stain, he had to fix it, he had to get it away. Faster and faster he ripped at the suede, the material tearing into his skin. Now the suede was red. It wouldn’t go away, it wouldn’t-

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale had let himself into the flat. The flat was a contradiction of spotless and ruined. The kitchen was scoured, and his eyes stung with the overwhelming smell of bleach. The cabinet door was halfway off its hinges.   
The living room…  
Crowley was crouched on the couch, which was now shredded and bloody. Stuffing and bits of fabric and suede were strewn on the floor, and the air was thick with textile particles. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, softer, gentler. 

He was still pawing at the furniture, and Aziraphale grasped his arms by the wrist. His hands were almost as savaged as the couch. They were blistered from bleach burns and cut up with splinters and sliced from the fabric.   
Crowley was shaking, trembling. 

“You’re safe,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Tears began to fall down Crowley’s cheeks. 

“Steady,” murmured Aziraphale, “breathe.”

Hours later he was wrapped in a soft blanket and sipping cocoa. ‘The Golden Girls’ was on the television. Aziraphale’s strong, thick arms were holding him.   
He was also holding a bendy straw for him. His hands were bandaged, and there was a heating pad on his back. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” asked Aziraphale. 

He thought about it.   
Nothing felt real since the “incident” at the airbase. He didn’t believe they’d really be left alone. It was unsettling, like the quiet before the storm. He was waiting, waiting, waiting...for something. 

“Damocles,” he managed to say. 

After a few minutes, Aziraphale nodded in understanding. 

“Waiting for the fall?”

“Always.”

The angel thought for a moment. 

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet, and for all we know it might never happen,” he finally said, slowly, carefully. 

“I hate waiting for it.”

“Then don’t wait. If it happens, it’ll happen whether you wait for it or not.”

“I can’t help waiting. Feel as though….I have to be ready. For something,” said the demon bitterly.

“But we’ll never be ready.”

“I know. But I can’t help thinking about it.”

He bit his lip. 

“What about you?” he asked. 

“What about me, dear?”

“How do you cope?”

Aziraphale put the cocoa on the table. 

“The way I see it, Crowley,” he explained, “we can never know when or even if it’ll happen, and we can’t stop it if it does. I’d rather-”

He fixated his marbled eyes on him. 

“I’d rather make the most of whatever time I have.”

“So we’re both waiting,” sighed Crowley.

“Like you said, my dear, we can’t help it.”

Aziraphale smiled and patted his thigh fondly. 

“And waiting is easier with a friend,” he said. 

Crowley swallowed, still very much uncertain. 

“Wait with me?” he asked hopefully. 

“Of course, my dearest. Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece because I need to project...


End file.
